


Romeo and His Girl (1925)

by legendofcatnerd



Category: Buster Keaton - Fandom, Mary Pickford - Fandom, Silent Movies - Fandom, silent movie
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofcatnerd/pseuds/legendofcatnerd
Summary: Mary Pickford needs a career boost. Buster Keaton needs an escape from his home life. An exciting script, the right director and a golden opportunity for both of them appears. The only problem? They can’t stand each other.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this is a work of fiction and in no way refers to an affair had by either party during this time or at any point. Mary was happily married to Doug Fairbanks Sr. at the time of this story, so this would not have been happening. This is simply a work of pure fiction and is not meant to offend fans of any of the actors or other real people.

_Wednesday, February 2nd, 1966_

_9:24 am_

She couldn’t believe it, yet there it was, in big bold letters on the second page of the newspaper. Her eyes scanned over the words over and over, as if to make sure it was real. The headline, seemingly pressed small compared to the enormity of its containment, read, “ _Legendary Film Star Buster Keaton Dead. Family says lung cancer is cause, Keaton died Tuesday evening._ ”

“Is everything alright, darling?” Mary’s husband, Buddy, spoke up from across the breakfast table, startling her from her thoughts, “You look pale all of a sudden.”

“Yes, my love, I’m just fine,” Mary stood up, slowly, as if she worried her legs might give in beneath her, “I just need to go for a little walk is all.”

Buddy smiled gently at his wife, kissing her on the cheek as she passed him towards the hallway. Mary remembered a box she’d kept for years, left in one of the older wardrobes. After reading the newspaper that morning, she decided it was time to look into it once again.

Her legs were weak as she climbed the small staircase. She too, was growing old. But it seemed Buster was too young. It had been forever since she last saw him, Mary thought, reaching the second floor. When had that been? Television didn’t count, she said, remembering when he came on for  _What’s My Line?_  a few years back. He’d aged greatly, but it was without a doubt still Buster. Those giant eyes of him would be recognizable anywhere.

The door swung open slowly, with a minor creak within the wood. Mary walked across the Chinese carpet, an old favourite of Lottie’s. She wondered why she bothered keeping the thing, since she wasn’t all that fond of the design or the feel. Still, it was fine to lay in the spare room, where other remnants of what now seemed like a past life were kept.

The dark wood wardrobe stood against the wall, only a bit taller than Mary herself. A children’s wardrobe, her previous husband Douglas had teased. It didn’t matter to her, so long as it did its job. And now it was, but one of a different kind: that of a memory keeper. As she quietly pulled the doors open, Mary saw many old clothes and coats -mostly hers, but the odd item of Buddy’s too- hanging within the small space. She got on her hands and knees, much against what her doctor or husband would recommend, and spotted what she was looking for: a small tin chocolate box, tied with a pale string, sitting covered with dust at the back of the wardrobe.

Mary settled herself in an old armchair that Jack had sent from Paris for her birthday one year and placed the tin box on her lap. She unraveled the string, which started to fall apart. Inside the box was a small notebook no bigger than her hand, a notecard and a lock of hair. 

She opened the notebook and saw the tiny pressed daffodil inside, bringing a smile to her face. Mary remembered that day. Buster was on a tirade, but then again so was she. At the time she was mad at him, but by the end of the day she chose to keep the yellow flower. Mary was glad she did.

Buster had autographed her book out of spite. His signature, always neat and recognizable, had cheekily been placed beneath his dedication to her: To Mrs. Fairbanks, with love, Your Beloved Bug-Eyed Loon.” That was the day he’d discovered her name for him. Mary was furious. Now, she was laughing.

The note-card was for a long-defunct dance club that Buster had taken her to. Mary remembered running into Lottie, where Buster announced she was his future wife. This mortified and angered Mary to no end, while Lottie was astounded. “Research,” he’d called it, for their film. Mary shook her head, sliding the card into the box again. Typical Buster.

Her lock of hair from the day she cut her curls was the last remaining item. Mary picked it up and ran her thumb over it. Buster’s words echoed in her memory, the day she yelled at him until she was blue in the face outside the dance club, tears streaming everywhere. Buster threw his hands up in the air, “Cut your damned hair! You don’t owe anybody anything! Cut it, Mary!” Years later, she did. 

And without Douglas’s knowledge, Mary sent Buster one of the other cut locks. He never responded.

Mary sighed, setting the lid on the tin box. Someday, she told herself, she would learn to live in this new life of old age. But not today. 


	2. Lillian and the Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lillian Gish arrives in Hollywood for a visit and has lunch with D.W. Griffith, who hands her a remarkable script for a movie. The two decide to cast Mary Pickford and Buster Keaton in the title roles. Lillian arrives at Pickfair to convince Mary.

_Middle of June, 1925_

_12:22 pm_

The click of heels on a busy restaurant floor in Hollywood mixed in with the busy chatter of men and women and the clinking of forks on plates. A woman, wide eyed and well-dressed, paused to check her lipstick in the reflection of her compact. Upon seeing her beautiful arched cupid’s bow was behaving nicely, she glanced up to see a man waving to her from a table across the room.

“Mr. Griffith,” she smiled as he pulled out the chair for her, “So wonderful to see you.”

“And you, Miss Gish,” replied D.W. Griffith, looking smart in a dark suit, “How is Europe treating you? Where are you now, anyway…France, was it?”

“Indeed,” Lillian removed her hat, revealing soft, short curled hair, “I’m just outside of Paris, in a little villa. One of the few places not ravaged by the war. Simply divine little spot. I love it.”

“Would you say you love it so much you won’t come back to work on a picture, written by your truly?” Griffith smiled, his hands unfolding as he reached into his briefcase.

Lillian rolled her eyes, laughing, “Mr. Griffith, we’ve talked about this…”

“I know, I know,” he removed a thick volume from his briefcase, setting it on the table between them, “But listen. Your timing is just right. I’ve got to make a move before it’s too late, you see. My last one was a flop, but I got this idea two weeks ago, and I just had to write it down-”

“I’m trying not to get too involved with anything, Mr. Griffith, please,” Lillian insisted, “I’ve had my time, I intend to enjoy the quiet life away from the spotlight until the press dies down, and-”

“It’s a modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet,” he continued, ignoring her protests, “Where Romeo’s an actor in the movies, he’s about to make it big. And Juliet is a dancer at a club. A real good one. They’re both different, you see, but when they meet, they’re just right for each other.”

Lillian paused, sighing, “Do they both die in the end?”

Griffith smiled, “Why don’t you read it and find out?”

Lillian pursed her lips, “Suppose I do. Suppose it’s right and I like it very much, but I don’t want to be in it. You are one of my dearest friends, Mr. Griffith, and after what happened with Duell…”

D.W. rested his chin on the palm of his hand, “Lil, I’m no good in Hollywood anymore. This script is what’s gonna help. I’ve got to keep working somehow, y’know?”

“Well, you know I’m only in town for a little while. I’ve got to go after this and stop by to see Mary…” Lillian trailed off. An idea hit her.

“Mary, Mr. Griffith,” she was astounded at the thought herself, “What about Mary? Wouldn’t she like it?”

D.W. straightened almost instantly as he remembered his protege, long gone to superstardom of which he could not deny his proudness of her success, “Well, sure she might. But who would play Romeo? Would Douglas be up for the part?”

Lillian sunk back into her chair, “No, I’m afraid not. He’s traveling.”

Mr. Griffith nodded slowly, “So she’s told you, then.”

“Through some letters and phone calls, yes,” Lillian’s eyes met D.W.’s, and they both shared sympathy for their friend, “Perhaps we ought to order something to eat, and maybe one of us will be able to come up with the right Romeo for your film.”

He agreed. Lillian knew the chance at gossip for meeting for lunch with the married director, but it was much less risky than starring in one of his films. Although, her intrigue was set; he hadn’t written in quite some time, and when D.W. was excited about something, it had to be good. 

She only hoped it would lift Mary’s spirits, if not her career, for a time at least. It was better than the slowly sinking ship her friend was currently sitting upon. As she glanced at the script in front of her, Lillian Gish knew she had a 50/50 chance.

And by the time they had finished their meal, Lillian and Mr. Griffith had the perfect casting for who would play Romeo opposite Mary’s Juliet.

—

Pickfair was simply stunning, and the gardens on this day were no exception. Lillian and Mary were seated on the porch, enjoying cold drinks and the sound of birds, the summer sun dancing across the yard through the trees. Californian paradise.

“Mary, my dear,” Lillian said, setting her ice cold lemonade on the table between them, “I’ve been to see Mr. Griffith before I came here. He has something for you.”

“Something for me?” Mary lifted her eyebrows, adjusting her straw sunhat, “Well…I haven’t worked with D.W. in so long. I don’t know what this could possible mean.”

Lillian reached into her purse, “I read parts of it on the way over in the car. And with Mr. Griffith himself.” She set the script before her friend. “Mary, it’s wonderful. It’s smart, it’s romantic, it’s everything that emulates you. All he wants is credit for the writing. It’s a gift.”

A gift? Mary was skeptical. Suppose the film business could make you that way. Still, she and Mr. Griffith were not on bad terms and he did come to Pickfair for dinner every now and then, especially at Christmas. Her hands lifted the papers off the table so she could gaze the film title.

“Romeo and His Girl, a romantic comedy adventure by D.W. Griffith,” Mary frowned, “What on earth?”

“It’s a modern Romeo and Juliet,” Lillian explained, her eyes wild with emotion, “Romeo is an actor in the movies. He’s about to hit the big ones, you know? And Juliet, she’s a dancer.”

“A dancer?”

“Yes, a jazz dancer,” Lillian said, “D.W. said she’d be the best Charleston dancer you could ever imagine.”

Mary felt a bit dejected, “Well I really can’t dance…”

“You could learn! It’s only for one or two scenes,” she continued, “It takes place in Italy at first. There’s a funny little gondola ride too. Oh, we were howling when we tried to read it aloud. But then they fly to California, here. For his films, you know, and-”

“Lil, slow down,” Mary set the script back on the table and leaned back in her chair, “This…it seems a little, I don’t know, too ambitious for me.”

“Too ambitious? Something too ambitious for the great Mary Pickford?” Lillian was astonished, exaggerating her tone.

Admittedly, her exaggeration made Mary smile a little, “Well you know what I mean. It sounds great, it really does. But if I were to run it, who would we cast as Romeo?”

Lillian tilted her head, a keen smirk on her tiny lips, “I’ve got just the guy. He’s one of the United Artists fellows, too.”

Mary watched her worriedly, “If you say Chaplin…”

“No, of course not Chaplin,” Lillian burst into laughter, “But your Romeo must be handsome, witty and most of all, romantic. What male film star of today fits that bill?”

Douglas does, Mary thought miserably. Douglas, her husband, her beloved. Off on some golf course somewhere in Scotland. Wait, was it Scotland? Perhaps it was Barcelona. Mary was unsure if they even had golf there. She sighed, irritated with both herself and the situation.

“If you can’t guess, I’ll just tell you, then,” Lillian now had a smile upon her dainty mouth, “Buster Keaton.”

Mary blinked, staring at Lillian in disbelief.

“Buster…Buster Keaton?” Had she heard that right? Buster Keaton, the tiny (well, fine, he was taller than her, but so was everyone else) stuntman who wore oversized pants and that awful porkpie hat. The same man who had large, gauging eyes that were filled with what Mary thought was either sadness or deep regret, which were often troubling to look at on screen. The very actor who in his films got himself into some of the most uncomfortable situations that when she actually viewed them, Mary squirmed in her seat. Once, she actually left.

Handsome, witty and romantic were not words Mary Pickford would use to describe Buster Keaton. Oddball, partially mad and slightly creepy were more suited to him, she felt. But looking into Lillian’s bright, enthusiastic eyes, Mary was torn. Her honesty meant everything to her dear friend, but she also didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“I haven’t approached him yet about the project, seeing as he’s just wrapped up with his last picture,” Lillian replied, “But Mary…I know he’s nowhere near the leading man you’re used to. But that’s the point.” She fumbled in her purse for a newspaper, opening it to the film reviews page. “Look. He’s popular right now. People like him, and they love you. So think about it.”

“Are you saying I ought to use Mr. Keaton’s popularity?” Mary was unsure of this.

“No, absolutely not. But in terms of your career, it would make sense to star in a well-written film with another actor who is doing reasonably well. That would bring in more of an audience than you usually do.”

Mary sighed, “Lillian…I don’t know…”

Lillian paused, folding the newspaper back up, taking one of Mary’s hands in her own, “Mary, my dearest friend. You told me recently you don’t want to be Little Mary anymore, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I want to take on more serious roles, we’ve talked about-”

“Then take a chance on this one,” Lillian squeezed her hand, gently, “Run it by Charlotte, see what she thinks. I’m quite certain she will be supportive of your decision.”

Lillian withdrew her hands then, leaving newsprint fingerprints on Mary’s. She looked down at the little ink spots, knowing she could run to wash them off if she wanted to. In fact, Mary knew the ink would wash down the drain and be gone forever, never to plague her hands again. That, she believed, was all on her own accord. Sometimes in her life, Mary had complete and total control.

“I’ll read it this afternoon,” Mary promised, “And then I’ll pass it on to Mother. If I like it enough, I’ll consider it. Truly I will.”

Lillian smiled and nodded, “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Suppose it was good, since Mr. Griffith had already sent the other script to Keaton, unbeknownst to both Mary and Lillian. And he would need little convincing on that end.


	3. Buster and the Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D.W. Griffith arrives at Buster’s house and offers him the script, which he accepts. Charlotte Pickford and Mary discuss the film.

It wasn’t going away this time. How irritating, Buster Keaton thought to himself as he looked at his own visage in the bathroom mirror, gently touching his bruised cheek. At least passing it off as an accident at the studio would work. Most people wouldn’t ask twice.

To say things weren’t well between Buster and his wife Natalie Talmadge was an understatement. They hadn’t been happy in marriage in a few years, though admitting it aloud was something neither of them would do. Only one of them was trying to do something about this, and nothing he tried would work. Giving up, Buster thought, would do neither of them any good, but patience wore thin.

Natalie resented Buster, for what he did not know. She refused to talk to him and rolled her eyes when he asked. Perhaps it was that his career had taken off where hers had not, or the time spent at the studio filming, writing or a mixture of the two. Guiltily, he knew he didn’t know his two boys like he should. But then, Natalie took off with them whenever he had a moment at home, and to be fair, Buster didn’t exactly have a normal childhood to draw from.

Still, if it was entirely his fault, he had little to show for it. Pressing the ice to the fresh bruise on his left cheek, Buster sighed. He definitely deserved some sort of push, but he wasn’t sure if this was it. Natalie forbade physical intimacy with him after their second son was born, which Buster did not understand. If it was having more children she was concerned about, he could easily (and discretely) bring her contraception. 

But that was not the case. Natalie now wouldn’t kiss him, let alone embrace him. he suspected it had something to do with her mother or sisters, all of whom looked at him with a disapproving glance. Again, he didn’t know why. Maybe it was his vaudeville past, or the presence of his father from time to time. The Talmadges took great pride in announcing what (or who) they deemed unworthy of their attention or company.

So today, one day in which he had off, Buster had tried to win Natalie back. He dressed in his best slacks and shirt, with the pocket watch she had given him as a birthday gift during their first year of marriage. Following her to her room after breakfast to avoid the family, Buster tried to win her over with soft, gentle words of fancy, and something he’d not had from her in over a year: a kiss.

It would prove fruitless. Natalie, furious he wasn’t respecting her wishes (and rightfully so, Buster thought miserably), slapped him as hard as she could. Dumbfounded, he let her push him into the hall as her door slammed in his face. Now, feeling every bit the fool he was in some of his early films with Roscoe Arbuckle, Buster looked into the mirror at his slightly battered face. He had never looked more pathetic in his entire life.

The pain was minimal, compared to some he’d felt. Compared to how he felt whenever he looked at her, Buster concluded. He still loved Natalie deeply. He would lie awake at night in the bedroom she’d told him to sleep in, thinking about how it was the first year. He recalled carrying her into the marriage bed at night, both of them laughing. The way she smelled, the way she held onto him like he was all she’d ever need. Buster believed that. They were happy. 

Now, he was having affairs. As a young man, Buster had needs, but was very discreet about it. Normally he took the girl to a hotel. He wasn’t sure if Natalie knew or not, but he doubted she would care. So long as she had access to his earnings, her family were able to live with them and Buster didn’t touch her, things were fine. Her face, once soft and sweet, was now stern, like her mother’s. 

And yet, Buster thought stupidly, he still had feelings for her.

“Mr. Keaton?” one of the household staff interrupted his melancholy thoughts, “You have a visitor in the front hall, sir.”

“Right, thank you,” Buster quickly adjusted himself and left the solitary of his bathroom, heading towards the stairs, “Is it my father?”

“I would certainly hope not.”

Buster raised his eyebrows upon seeing the figure of director D.W. Griffith in his hallway. Immediately, he stiffened.  _The Birth of a Nation_  was his brainchild and one of Buster’s favourite films of all time. Suddenly, he felt even smaller than he already was.

“Mr. Griffith, to what do I owe this visit?” Buster managed to stammer. Rarely was he nervous, and it showed.

D.W. removed his hat and opened his briefcase, “Mr. Keaton, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

They sat over tea and discussed the film, with Buster listening more intently than he ever had. It was everything he wanted in a movie- it had a great plot, with lots of elbow room for him, and a perfectly well suited role for him- and to be presented with it by D.W. himself seemed like something out of a dream. If not for his throbbing cheek, Buster would think he was in fact still asleep.

“I’m sure you’ve met Lillian Gish,” Mr. Griffith said, after they’d gone over the particulars, “She was in a few of my films.”

“ _The Birth of a Nation_ , yes, yes,” Buster replied eagerly, “Sir, I have always had such a deep admiration for that picture, in fact I plan to someday make something like it.”

“Mr. Keaton, you flatter me far too much,” D.W. smiled, “But about Miss Gish. As of right now, she is offering this script to your very own Juliet.”

Buster frowned, “But I thought I would be choosing my Juliet.” Quietly, and foolishly so, he was hoping to ask Natalie. She’d been out of acting for two years, but maybe a movie together was just the thing they needed.

“Well, when I wrote this script, I had hoped Lillian might act in its adaptation,” D.W. admitted to him, “But stubborn she is. Instead, she suggested we might employ Mary Pickford.”

Buster sat up immediately straight, “Mary Pickford? Little Mary?”

D.W. laughed, “Yes, the very same. You see, she’s ready to take on more adult roles. I’m sure you’re no stranger to her pictures.”

“I am familiar, yes. Normally she plays a child.” Buster could not hide he was bothered by the choice.

“Correct, but some of Mary’s work proves she’s quite capable of being the dancing Juliet to your modern Romeo,” Mr. Griffith insisted, “Just imagine it, Mr. Keaton. One of the greatest comedy actors with one of the greatest actresses. Surely, it would be successful.”

“…would I have control of it?” Buster eyed D.W. suspiciously, “I prefer to have creative control of my own films, Mr. Griffith, and I know Mary is the highest paid woman in town.”

D.W. hadn’t thought of that. Mary herself liked to be the head of her own motion pictures as well. Perhaps they could find some sort of compromise, at least for the sake of the film?

“Mr. Keaton,” D.W. began, “You are always the leading man, and she the leading woman. Imagine the possibilities if the two of you made this film together. You think you’re doing well now, just imagine how the public would react to seeing two of the greatest film actors together.”

Buster looked down at the script on the table. D.W. Griffith himself was dropping off the script that he had written, and had him in mind for a lead role. Surely, he could learn to work with Pickford. Buster doubted she would be that difficult to act alongside. The anxious face of Mr. Griffith, one of his greatest film heroes, looked upon him with forced patience.

“Sure,” Buster nodded, “I’ll do it.”

They discussed the particulars of the film- Joseph Schenk to direct, with Mary agreeing of course, and to start within the next week- and Mr. Griffith was on his way. Buster shook his hand, though he would much rather have hugged him. As the door closed, he turned and nearly walked into Natalie.

“Who was that?” she asked plainly, dressed in a light coat and hat with matching shoes. Buster recognized she was going out.

“D.W. Griffith,” Buster replied, light in his usually emotionless eyes, “The director. He made that incredible film years ago, had Lillian Gish in it, called Birth-”

“I know who he is,” Natalie said impatiently, “What on earth did he want with you?”

Buster chose to ignore her tone and declared proudly, “He presented me with a script, and requested writing credit, for my next film.”

Natalie shrugged her shoulders, “Well, he must be bored.” She walked past her husband and out the door, leaving Buster standing in the large entry hallway of the gigantic house alone. He knew deep down he could never impress her, at least not through his movies.

But today, he did not care. In fact, if you were to ask the house staff, they might have mentioned he smiled once or twice.

—

“So what do you think?” Mary asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. 

Charlotte nodded slowly, “It’s well written, I’ll give D.W. that.”

“But the idea,” Mary urged her mother, “Of me, working with Buster Keaton as Romeo. Does it sound like a good investment of my time?”

“Well we did want you to gravitate from the Little Mary role, didn’t we?” Charlotte replied, “Or at least, I know you truly do. I think playing a jazz dancer, a modern woman as they say, would certainly change the public’s opinion…”

“Oh dear,” Mary hung her head, “It’s too much, isn’t it, Mama? They’ll toss me out the moment they see me try to dance or pretend to have a drink.”

“I wouldn’t say that, my love,” Charlotte said reassuringly, “I just want you to understand it will be challenging. That you may have to talk to the press about it so it’s not such a shock to your fans. But I understand that when you find a script you’re passionate about, that you know better than anyone how to bring it to life.”

Mary stirred her tea, “Mama, you know me too well, and Juliet…she’s everything I could want to portray. She can hold her own and doesn’t ‘need’ Romeo, but they’re a team, you know? It’s all so romantic and modern and just what I feel like I could use to prove I can be a real serious actress.”

Charlotte smiled gently, eternally proud of the strong young woman she raised, “Then I think we have our answer.”


	4. Mary and the First Disagreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buster and Mary meet on set of the film Romeo and His Girl. The two argue over who is the lead role and Buster’s choice of director.

_Late June, 1925_

_10:00am_

Nervous. Mary Pickford was nervous. It was so incredibly evident as she adjusted her hat for the third or fourth time. Under what circumstances she couldn’t admit, only because she didn’t know.

Buster Keaton did not intimidate her, at least the thought of him didn’t. No one scared Mary all that much (except perhaps her ex husband Owen Moore, but that was hopefully forever in the past now). Maybe it was the prospect of meeting Mr. Keaton and finding they had differences that struck too harshly, or that he wouldn’t respect her. Mary was no stranger to standing her ground.

Charlotte and Lillian both tried to ease Mary’s worries by expressing their support of her, and that Mr. Keaton was likely a kind man who had not earned an ill reputation in Hollywood. Lillian had met him a few times, and described him as an odd little man who was very polite, kept to himself and seemed very unaffected by his surroundings. Mary couldn’t fathom how the latter was even possible.

Buster was already at the studio when Mary’s car pulled up. He was talking to Joseph M. Schenck, his longtime director and working partner. That morning, Buster had went to kiss his boys goodbye but saw them pulled away by their grandmother. Though it hurt, he was determined to allow nothing to dampen his spirits. After all, it was the first day of shooting.

Mary Pickford and Buster Keaton were both nervous but excited, enthusiastic as can be when the day began. Those who were there cannot exactly pinpoint when it all went wrong, but Mary’s mother insists it was Buster’s fault. Schenck on the other hand blames Pickford’s stubbornness. Never the less, from the time she arrived and Buster stood there waiting to meet her, the movie set battle of the century began.

“Mrs. Fairbanks,” Buster said politely, taking Mary aback, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Charlotte was slightly offended by the use of title, but Mary was gracious, “Actually, I go by Miss Pickford. I don’t use my husband’s name. You may call me Mary if you like, since we’ll be working together.”

Buster nodded, “I’m sorry, forgive my ignorance. I’m sure you can tell by my soddy appearance that I’m Buster Keaton.” He nodded towards Charlotte. “And you must be Mary’s mother, Charlotte.”

Charlotte smiled back politely at him. So the man did his research.

Mary smiled, offering to shake his hand, which he did, “Lovely to meet you. Shall we get started, then?”

“Certainly,” Buster led her to the set, which was now resembling a set of apartments. One was to be Romeo’s and the other Juliet’s. Though they did not live in the same building, they did pass each other on the street from time to time in the opening scenes.

Joseph M. Schenck was speaking to a camera operator when Buster led Mary (and the shadow-like Charlotte, who was taking in every move Buster made) over to him, picking up his porkpie hat on from a chair on the way over. Charlotte frowned as he placed it on his head. Mary and her mother exchanged glances. Of course the hat was something he was known for, but surely he wouldn’t wear it in the film?

“Ah, Miss Pickford!” Mr. Schenck exclaimed in his thick Russian accent, thrilled upon seeing Mary at Buster’s side, “Hello, hello, so wonderful to at last meet you!” He kissed either side of her cheek, which took Mary by surprise. 

“This is our director, Joseph M. Schenck,” Buster said proudly, “He and I have worked together for years, and is a trusted friend of mine.”

Charlotte crossed her arms, “I was under the impression that directorship would fall under Mary’s decision.”

“Please, I know Mr. Griffith so well,” Schenck insisted, “And you work with him so long, yes? He speak very well of you, Miss Pickford.”

Charlotte didn’t budge, “Mr. Keaton, I would like a word with you, in private, please.”

Mary knew the tone of her mother’s voice. Charlotte was angry, and rightfully so. She watched, her brow furrowed, as she lead Buster several yards away.

“I’m not sure what you think you’re playing at, Mr. Keaton,” Charlotte said firmly, “But my daughter always chooses her own directors. To take one on without her consent or consideration is incredibly rude.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, Mrs. Pickford,” Buster said, raising his hands, “Really. Schenck’s good, I swear it, he knows what he’s doing.”

“If Mary doesn’t like him, he’ll be removed, and that’s that.” Charlotte insisted.

Now Buster was getting slightly offended, “If it’s all the same, I believe Mary should be telling me if she’s displeased. But she is not the lead role in this film anyway.”

Mary overheard the last part, and her cheeks flared red. What did he mean she wasn’t a lead role? Romeo AND Juliet were the main characters. They had roughly the same amount of scenes. Now it was her turn to be displeased.

“Mother,” Mary said, after excusing herself from Mr. Schenck, “I can handle this.”

Charlotte nodded and walked away, leaving the two costars standing opposite each other.

“I am a lead role, Mr. Keaton,” Mary insisted, “As I have been for years, I’m an actress in which my name is on the bill of whatever I star in. So, I am not sure what you mean, and I believe you might be confused.”

“Miss Pickford,” Buster said, feeling slightly intimidated by the small woman before him but promising himself he wouldn’t show it, “It’s called  _Romeo and His Girl_ , you know. Not  _Juliet and Her Fellow_.”

“So I am just a ‘girl’, to you,” Mary was starting to get angry now, “I’m sorry to invoke this- actually, no, I am not- but do you know who I am?”

Buster crossed his arms, “As assured as you ought to know me.”

“Mr. Keaton, Miss Pickford, please,” Joseph Schenck now appeared between them, the fire in Mary’s eyes as evident as the anger within Buster’s, “Let’s have a seat, ok? Let us talk gently to one another. No need for a fight so early.”

Mary huffed and Buster groaned. Buster was certain he was the star of this film, and Mary was not willing to be billed as a supporting role. No, not after what she’d been through to get here. Buster, as well, did not want to be considered second rate. He didn’t care who Mary was (or who she thought she was), he didn’t bow down to anybody.

Except Natalie, of course. But that was different. His cheek throbbed at the thought.

Now seated in chairs bearing their names (it seemed Griffith and Lillian were overly eager and arranged for them to be brought to the set for the first day), Mary mimicked her mother’s displeased pose and Buster slumped in his seat. Schenck sat across from them both, optimistic. 

“Now now,” he began, “What is the problem, yes? You tell me. I do my best to help. I wish not to see you fight.”

“Mr. Keaton believes that he is the lead role in this picture,” Mary said, her voice not hiding her displeasure, “And I was told that is not the case. I refuse to be a support to someone who is not my equal.”

“I beg your pardon?” Buster sat up immediately, “Are we all on the same planet, here? Schenck, are you hearing this?”

“I am,” Mr. Schenck folded his hands beneath his chin, “And what Mr. Griffith and Miss Gish told me, was that you are both the lead.”

Buster and Mary looked at each other. Both? How was that even possible? Buster was used to being the main character,with his female support being usually quite pleased with their role. As for Mary, she hadn’t been a supporting character for years. No, she’d climbed too far and worked too hard to make it here to be simply Buster’s romance.

“Then I will direct myself.” Mary said simply.   

“You cannot do that,” Buster replied, “Either Schenck or no one. He’s the only one I trust with this.”

“Then no one.” Mary said.

Schenck took a deep breath, “Miss Pickford. I am aware of how Buster likes to do his act, but you I have not worked with. And I am excited to! Please tell me what you want in the film and we can work together. I wish not to leave.”

Mary seemed to think this over. Buster rolled his eyes. She was being too difficult for his liking. His previous actresses, such as Virginia Fox, never challenged him so blatantly. Virginia was just happy to be in the picture, period!

But then, this was Mary Pickford. She was the highest paid woman in Hollywood, and considered one of the most cherished and beautiful. Buster remembered when she married Douglas Fairbanks, and how the papers were mad about them. His own wedding and life were much quieter in comparison. Admittedly, he did not envy her fame.

“Very well,” Mary replied at last, “But if we are to share the main roles, all my ideas are to be considered. I will not have anyone overtake me.”

Schenck nodded, “This is fair, seeing as you are well-respected. And Buster? How does this sound to you?”

Buster removed his little porkpie hat, twirling it in his hands, “I suppose, so long as we make a good picture that we’re proud of, that’s what matters most.”

Mary folded her hands, a gentle smile on her lips in agreement. Schenck happily rose from his seat, “Then off to the wardrobes, both of you! We’ll make sure all the extras are good and ready. I am so pleased to be your director, Buster and Miss Pickford.”

Buster went one way and Mary went the other, both heading to get into their prospective costumes. Charlotte met her daughter by the selection of dresses that awaited, her watchful eye resting on Mary. Buster, on the other hand, was alone, leaving him free to smoke a cigarette as he decided which vest would suit him for the upcoming scene.

“I trust you did not bow down to Mr. Keaton, my dear,” Charlotte said as Mary removed her hat and set her purse down.

Mary shook her head, “Absolutely not, Mama. In fact, I would be most surprised if Mr. Keaton believed he had the upper hand. If I must, I will teach him that he will respect me.”

Buster exhaled, a puff of smoke rising into the air. One of the extras, a longtime actor who had been uncredited but in many of Buster’s previous films, nodded to him, “She’s a handful, that Pickford. Best of luck to ye.”

“Won’t need luck,” Buster replied, “She’ll see my way before we’re done here.”

Neither Mary Pickford nor Buster Keaton could anticipate the storm that came. A storm that they would both create, with the thunder and lightning that was their personalities, and struggle to weather when it came crashing down. It would be, as many of the papers would describe, a complete and utter disaster.


	5. Buster and the Little Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary makes changes to the set, irritating Buster. She is furious to discover his production company, not United Artists, is producing the film.

Mary’s costume was uncomfortable, and she was displeased. Charlotte poked and prodded and tried her best to help her daughter, but the plain small dress she was wearing itched and scratched at her skin. Sighing, Mary looked into the mirror and shook her heard. Not a good start to this day.

“I’ll find something else,” Charlotte said, rising from her seat, “Dear, would you like something longer or shorter?”

“No, Mama, don’t worry about it,” Mary replied, “I don’t want to give Mr. Keaton another reason to dislike me.” In truth, Mary thought, she wanted to appear much more resilient. 

Discomfort aside, Mary went to her make up table and began to apply the pasty white that would aid the lighting of her face. She went over the upcoming scene in her head- how she would run from one part of the apartment to the other, the way she would react to Romeo in the hallway, even her face when she looked at his letter- and finished rather promptly. Sliding on the shoes she brought (which were much more comfortable than her dress, of course), Mary returned to the set to find Buster Keaton.

And find him she did, but not how she had assumed. Finishing a cigarette, Buster stood gazing at the set, wearing his oversized pants and slightly untucked shirt, with his porkpie hat sitting lazily on his head. Mary approached him slowly, wondering where to begin.

“Er, Mr. Keaton,” Mary said, “Do you think Romeo ought to dress that way?”

Buster cocked his head at her, “Well, I dress this way, and I’m playing Romeo.”

Mary crossed her arms, “I mean, you’re supposed to play a romantic.”

“Who’s to say ‘ol Stone Face isn’t romantic?” Buster asked. He was entirely serious. His last few films had seen him in romantic endeavors. To be fair, they were peppered were hardships and ridiculous mistakes, but they always got him the girl in the end.

“It’s just…I can’t very well see myself wanting to fall into your arms when you look like such a, well…a loon.”

Buster almost smiled at her use of words, “Good thing you’re only acting, then.”

“Mary! Buster! Lovely, lovely, let’s get to starting!” Joseph Schenck interrupted them, possibly dispelling the start of a quarrel, “Mary, your apartment is on the right, and Buster, yours on the left. Let us begin.”

Charlotte took her seat along the camera, watching out of view. She grasped her handbag uncomfortably. It was as if she knew what was about to start. But then, no one could have known just how difficult this first day would be.

—

Mary frowned as she stood in Juliet’s apartment. It wasn’t right at all. She looked around and huffed uncomfortably.

“Mr. Schenck?” Mary called out, “I have some suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Buster called from his part of the set, “But we’re about to start.”

“No no, is just fine,” Schenck walked over to Mary and joined her, “Talk to me, Miss Pickford.”

“Well, first of all, why does Juliet not have any books?”

Buster blinked at her, exchanging glances with Schenck, “Why on earth would she want books?”

“She’s a dreamer, isn’t she? Always wanting to leave Italy behind and end up in America,” Mary said matter-of-factly, “So she would have books to read when she isn’t at the dance club. Also, why is her closet completely empty?”

“Empty…closet?” Buster stepped back, “She isn’t exactly rich.”

“Yes, I know that,” Mary continued, “But she ought to have her dancing dress hanging right about…here.” Mary gestured. “Dance is her passion, isn’t it?”

Buster rolled his eyes, thankfully Mary ignored him, “This is getting a bit silly…”

But Schenck was interested, “Go on, Miss Mary. What else?”

Twenty minutes later and Buster’s head was spinning. Too many candlesticks (they had gas and electric in Italy too, but Juliet was poorer and would end up with less), a worn out radio to be moved where it might be seen, a drawing of a fancy gramophone pinned to the wall and a few pairs of shoes lying about. Who knew Mary was so particular about her set?

Filming began at last. Romeo walked about his apartment getting ready for the day, trying to read a script while doing his regular morning routine. Naturally, he tripped over things, fell off the bed and did various tricks. Juliet daydreamed through her morning, dancing to imaginary music (but not yet in a jazz style) and openly wished to one day own a beautiful Victrola.

When it came time for break, Mary noticed Buster was wearing the porkpie hat still. She decided to approach him about it, but in a way that might make him better understand her concerns. Straightening herself, she followed the man through the lot until he paused to pull out his cigarettes.

Noticing Mary was next to him, Buster offered her one. Mary shook her head politely, “I don’t smoke.”

Buster shrugged and lit a match, taking a deep inhale, “Suit yourself.”

Mary took a deep breath, away from the smoke, “Mr. Keaton, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your costume.”

Buster exhaled, “What about it?”

“I worry it’s too comedic for Romeo,” Mary said slowly, still trying to maintain a polite demeanor, “And Juliet, well…she yearns for the better life, doesn’t she? I can’t see her being interested in a fellow who looks a bit like Chaplin.”

Buster about choked, “…Chaplin?”

“Yes, Charlie Chaplin, his Little Tramp costume.”

Buster frowned, “I…I know who Chaplin is. I worked with him. And I do not dress like the Tramp.” He wanted to mention that he and Charlie were mentored by Roscoe Arbuckle, but saw no reason. Something told him it wouldn’t help his case, here.

“Then you see what I mean,” Mary nodded, “Perhaps a more fitted pair of pants, and toss that dreadful little hat?”

Buster shook his head, “I think not.”

“Well I thought you said you didn’t dress like the Tramp, and yet-”

“Miss Pickford,” Buster turned to her, feeling rather insulted, “Mr. Chaplin and I are two very different fellows. It is incredibly rude of you to say otherwise.”

Mary laughed at his insistence, “Right, I’ll have you know that my husband is good friends with Charlie. And the very distributor of this picture, United Artists, was formed by myself, my husband, and Chaplin-”

“United Artists is not distributing this film,” Buster replied, “I’m not sure who told you that, but it’s being produced by Buster Keaton Productions.”

Mary blinked at him in disbelief, “Surely, you’re joking.”

“ _Surely_ ,” Buster imitated her tone, “I am not.” He was really getting annoyed with all her questions and suggestions. Why not let a good film just come along already? 

“I…I don’t know who you think you are, Mr. Keaton,” Mary started to clench her fists, “But I am the highest paid woman in Hollywood, and-”

“And I don’t take orders from anyone, let alone a woman.” Buster replied, his tone firm.

“How dare you,” Mary wanted to snag the cigarette from his fingers and stomp all over it until it was in pieces, “You would not even be in this picture if it wasn’t for me!”

“On the contrary, you are easily replaceable!” Buster shot back, “Who on earth, what man really, would want to work with you? The constant changes and complaints! I can’t even believe the public is so mad about you, Pickford.”

“Well you should be so lucky that I even tolerate your antics,” Mary sneered at him, her face growing hot with her temper, “All of that clowning you do, with your silly little costume and ridiculous hat! Where on earth did you get such a hideous thing?”

“It’s a Stetson, cut and made with sugar water, by myself,” Buster said, “You probably wouldn’t know how to do any of that, little princess you are. God forbid anyone disagrees with you!”

“What reason would I have to make such a ridiculous piece?” Mary put her hands on her hips, “No matter. I will go have a word with Schenck. Your costume will change, that foolish porkpie will get tossed, and we’ll see just who is producing my movie.”

“Your movie, is it?” Buster was enraged now, “My character’s name is in the title, not yours!”

“Well maybe I’ll have it CHANGED, then!” Mary threatened.

“You wouldn’t DARE!” Buster dropped his cigarette on the ground and put it out with his shoe, leaving it tattered in his anger.

“Don’t even TEMPT me, Mr. Keaton!” Mary stood on her tiptoes as her voice raised.

“You think you’ve got some power, some NERVE!”

“I was doing films when you were gallivanting around looking for your destiny, you utter fool, and I demand RESPECT!”

“ENOUGH! Both of you!” Charlotte Pickford now stood between Buster and Mary, both of whom were getting red in the face, “Utter nonsense, just like children. I can’t believe this.” She turned to Buster. “YOU. Don’t you ever raise your voice at my daughter again. And Mary, such behavior will get you a terrible reputation.”

Mary looked down at the ground, “I’m sorry, Mother, but I cannot work with Mr. Keaton unless her complies with my wishes.”

“I’m standing right here, and I will not do that.”

Charlotte shot him a look, “You watch your tongue, young man.” She took her daughter’s arm, “A word with Mr. Schenck, then. And perhaps a phonecall to Mr. Griffith if necessary.”

Buster watched Mary and her mother storm off. He couldn’t believe it, he thought to himself. How could such a well-loved woman such as Mary Pickford be such a handful? Too many times he’d seen reviews of her films boasting Mary to be a “darling” and “sweetheart.” Even her photographs came off with such softness, that her initial reactions to him still seemed a bit shocking.

No matter, Buster thought, withdrawing another smoke. Little Mary? More like Little Monster.

And Buster Keaton would not let that Little Monster scare him.


	6. Lottie and the Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing she is being underpaid, Mary negotiates a better contract. She then enlists the help of her sister, Lottie, to teach her to dance Lindy Hop jazz for her role of Juliet.

_One week later_

Mary was frustrated with herself. It was Friday, and Monday was quickly approaching. It loomed over her like a bad headache, the sort that starts in the back of your head and slowly travels forward, striking you when you least expect it. Only Mary knew it was coming, and her warning was the most recent squabble she’d had with Buster Keaton.

They worked out the difficult parts of the film. Mainly, being the whole production issue. After much discussion, Mary and Charlotte agreed that it was ok that the film be distributed by Buster Keaton productions, but Mary insisted she get a percentage of the profits.

“How much, exactly?” Buster asked, his voice already exasperated by her.

“Well, in my own movies, which this surely counts,” Mary replied, “I make 50% of the profits.”

“50%?!” Buster gaped at her, “Surely not. We can’t do that.”

“Then I suppose we ought to settle that straight away.” Mary crossed her arms. Buster shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She had him right where she wanted him.

After much arguing, Buster agreed to letting Mary claim 45% of the profits, which while it was substantially less than she normally made, they expected the film would bring in more money with them both in it. The papers had already picked up on it and were generating buzz. Buster would also do quite well, since it was his production company after all.

All seemed well until Mary inquired about the weekly payment and discovered Buster was making more than her.

“It will either be matched or brought over,” Mary said, “Or I will walk.”

At this point Buster was ready to throw in the towel. It had only been a week of filming, but it felt like years. It didn’t help that Natalie was conveniently not around when he would return home, adding to his despair, but now here was Mary Pickford insisting she make at least the same amount as a man! It was inconceivable. Disgusted, Buster found himself wondering if giving women the vote years earlier had inflated their heads as well.

But Schenck and Charlotte managed to keep the peace, at least for the time being. Mary’s pay was raised to match Buster’s, and both would now earn $3,500 a week for the picture. Buster felt as though they rubbed salt in his wounds when they promised to reimburse Mary for what she hadn’t been paid for the previous week. 

Now, with Buster off chainsmoking as usual, Mary sat with the script in her lap. The upcoming scene was to be her first dance, in which she danced at a club with a man who would pay for a dance (a common practice for working women dancers). Wearing a beautiful sequined gown with matching shoes, Mary felt anything but the modern, independent woman.  

“Mary, dear? Are you all right?”

Charlotte’s voice broke into her daughter’s thoughts.

“Mama, I’m worried,” Mary replied, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Darling,” Charlotte replied, “You and I both know you can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Mama, this is a bit different,” Mary replied, “I…don’t know how to Lindy-Hop.”

Lindy-Hop was the dance that everyone was doing in the clubs and at parties. Mary did not frequent clubs and wasn’t exactly into dancing. Now that she thought of it, it seemed almost ridiculous for her to want to take on the Juliet role in the first place. Blinded by the chance to play an adult female for once.

“Surely you must be kidding.”

Buster Keaton had appeared next to them, his eyes wider than usual.

Mary scoffed, “Now is not the time to offer your judgement, Mr. Keaton.”

“It’s an important part of Juliet’s character!” Buster said, “Don’t you and Douglas have all these big parties at your home?”

“Yes, but we don’t Lindy-Hop in the house!” Mary replied, “Perhaps we could just take that part out.”

Charlotte pursed her lips, “…there’s always Lottie.”

Mary and Buster exchanged confused glances. Mary, because she didn’t see why her mother wished to involve her younger sister, and Buster because he didn’t know who they were talking about.

“What about Lottie?”

“Lottie who?”

Charlotte smoothed out the sleeve of her dress, “Well. Lottie is quite a good dancer, I’ve heard. Lindy is something she’d know how to do. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind showing you a thing or two.”

Mary groaned, “Of course she would.” Lottie’s notorious partying, rampant with drugs and alcohol, was something she strongly discouraged.

“Get this Lottie to teach you, then,” Buster shrugged, “Sooner rather than later.”

Charlotte smiled gently, “She’s likely home right now. Let’s go pay her a visit. Certainly she can teach you within an hour or so. They don’t need much footage.”

Mary rose from her chair, “Good idea.”

Buster blinked furiously, “Now hold on just a minute. I’m going with you.”

“Certainly not!” Mary said, offended.

“You’ve already threatened to leave the production a few times today, Miss Pickford,” Buster insisted, “I need to make sure you don’t take off and never come back.”

“And what on earth makes you think I would do that?” Mary asked, trying to walk faster, but Keaton easily kept up.

“I don’t think you will, really. But as your Romeo, I think I ought to learn how to dance with you, don’t I?”

Mary looked to her mother for help.

“…he does have a point. It will look more natural if you practice.” Charlotte admitted.

Mary sighed, “Fine. Unless you have any more stunts you’d like to practice, like say, throwing yourself off a bridge.”

Buster smirked a little, “Not that I know of. Besides, we all know I would survive that, much to your disapproval.”

Mary couldn’t argue with him there.

—

Lottie Pickford rubbed her eyes, the sunlight piercing her version as she flickered her eyelids. She yawned and turned in bed, facing the wall. The damned sun followed. Had she not remembered to close the blinds.

Suddenly, a knock on her door. Lottie sat up, realizing she was nude. She fumbled around as she got up, searching for her dressing gown. Hastily she tied it, rushing over to the door, opening it just a crack.

It was Mary and Charlotte.

“Good afternoon, Lottie,” Mary said simply, “Another late night?”

Lottie was not in the mood for her older sister’s judgement, “What do you want?”

Mary took a deep breath, “I’m sorry to ask, but I need your help.”

Lottie propped the door open, revealing her bare legs, “MY help? For what?”

“She needs to learn how to dance,” Buster, who had been standing just out of view, caused Lottie to jump, “For our new film.” He paused, taking in her dark, beautiful hair and deep brown eyes. “Hello…”

Mary elbowed him in the ribs, “The sooner the better. Might we come in?”

Lottie shrugged and stepped aside, “Hold on just a minute. Are you Buster Keaton?”

He nodded, “I am.”

“Hmm,” Lottie smirked, sensually arching her hip as she opened the door for them all, “You’re much better looking in person…”

Mary glared at her, “Don’t even think about it.” She looked back at Buster. “Either of you.”

Lottie sighed, stepping aside completely so the three could enter her apartment. Upon closing the door, she disappeared into the bedroom, quickly getting changed into a simple dress and stockings, “I suppose Doug is still overseas, then?”

“He is,” Mary replied, inspecting one of the chairs in the parlor, which looked to be dotted with wine stains, “Where’s Allan?”

Lottie ran her fingers through her hair, “Search me. Possibly filming today. Can’t remember.”

Buster looked at two framed photos on the mantel. One was of three children, all dressed in Edwardian clothing. He realized it was Mary, Lottie and a third sibling. The other was a signed portrait of a young man. Buster squinted and read, “Sincerely, Jack Pickford.” 

Charlotte busied herself in the kitchen, grimacing at the pile of dirty dishes that seemed to grow whenever she visited, “Have you any tea, Lottie?”

“Third shelf, Mother,” Lottie replied, joining her sister and Buster in the parlor, “Well. I read in the papers that you and Mary were working together on a new film. What’s it about, then?”

“Must you flirt with every man you meet?” Mary said, already irritated with Lottie.

Lottie crossed her arms, “I wasn’t flirting, Mary. Heavens, you think everything I do is to get myself into trouble.”

“Trouble is a friend of yours, Lottie,” Mary warned, “But if you must know-”

“I asked Buster,” Lottie said, the way she said his name sounding airy and making him slightly nervous, “So. Tell me.”

“…Romeo and…and Juliet…” Buster replied, feeling incredibly distracted by the way Lottie’s dress had a plunging neckline, “It’s…a modern retelling…”

“So fascinating,” Lottie replied, “And you are to play Romeo, hmm?”

Charlotte loudly set the teacups down on Lottie’s table, causing both daughters to jump. Clearly their mother was ware of what was going on. Or rather, Lottie’s intentions.

“Mary needs to learn how to Lindy-Hop, darling,” Charlotte said, as though she had done nothing, “And we thought you would be the best one to teach her.”

“What, me? Teach Mary, to dance?” Lottie laughed, “Mother. Lindy-Hop is really not her style, I can tell you that.”

“Then teach both of us,” Buster said, surprising everyone in the room, “After all, I have to dance too, at least for a little.”

Mary knew very well that Buster was truly interested in spending more time with the very flirtatious Lottie, but he did have a point, and defying her own expectations, Lottie found herself nodding in agreement.

“Sure,” Lottie said, helping Charlotte pour the tea, “But I can’t teach you here.”

“Why not?” Mary asked, “We could help clear the furniture.”

“That’s all well and good, but there’s simply not enough room,” Lottie explained, “Ooh. I’ve got a good idea. Tomorrow night is Saturday evening.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Then, you two ought to join me at the Palais!” Lottie clapped her hands, “They’ll have Dixieland there and everything. Oh Mary, it’s such a splendid dance hall, you know.”

“The Palais?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose, “What, that dreadful place with the Chinese designs all throughout the building?”

“The very same,” Lottie replied, “You will also be pleased to know it follows the strict rules of alcohol prohibition. Best you can get is fruit juice there.”

“Well then, I suppose it isn’t all that bad,” Charlotte said approvingly, “So Lottie, you’ll do it? You’ll teach your sister to dance?”

Lottie’s lips curled into a little smirk, “Sure, but what’s in it for me?”

Charlotte sighed, “You cannot be serious.”

“I’ll pay you twice what you made in your last picture,” Mary said firmly, “And you can have a dance with Mr. Keaton.”

“Really,” Lottie looked over to Buster, who was mixing the sugar in his tea, “Would Natalie Talmadge mind if I did that?”

Buster shrugged, “Natalie doesn’t concern herself with what I do outside of home.”

“Then you’ve got yourselves a deal,” Lottie said, winking at Buster, “You know, if I were married to you, I’d make sure I never let you out of my sight.”

“I’m sure you said the same thing to Allan,” Mary said sarcastically, receiving a look of pure malice from her sister, “Mr. Keaton, I’ll ensure we all take one care. What time shall we arrive then, Lottie? 8?”

“Oh, Mary,” Lottie laughed again, “Your naivety when it comes to my life is astounding. We’ll be at the Palais for 10, at least. That’s when the good music comes on.” She paused, not before stopping her sister from gasping. “Also. It may be a good idea for you both to wear something a bit more smashing.”

“…smashing?” Mary and Buster exchanged glances.

“You mean like what you and your friends like to wear out,” Charlotte said, “Men with their smart suits. Girls with those short dresses, tappy shoes…” She heaved a big sigh. “Degenerate, really.”

“Precisely,” Lottie was now grinning, “Oh, this is going to be _fun._ ”


	7. Mary and Her Sister's Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together with Buster, Mary and her sister attend a jazz club where they run into Clara Bow. A huge fight with Lottie ensues when Mary discovers her with another man.

It didn’t matter how she looked at it, Mary Pickford did not like the dress she was wearing. Or the shoes. Twisting and turning in front of the mirror, Mary felt as naked as the day she was born, and realized rather quickly that she was in no way a flapper.

“Heavens,” Charlotte exhaled when she stepped into the room, “Is that really it, then?”

Mary rested her head in her hands, “Oh Mama. I don’t know if this is what I ought to be doing. I’m no good at being a ‘modern’ woman. Maybe this role isn’t for me after all…”

“Nonsense. You can doing anything. You proved that long ago.”

“Knock knock!” Lottie’s singsong voice echoed as she entered, her eyes glimmering with excitement, “Oh goodness! Mary, aren’t you a sight!”

Mary covered her arms with a shawl, “Lottie. I cannot go out like this.”

“But of course you can,” Lottie tutted, “The only concern I’ve got is your hair.”

“And what exactly is wrong with your sister’s hair?” Charlotte raised her voice.

Lottie, apparently used to this sort of reaction from her mother, simply shrugged, “Well, we don’t want her getting recognized while she’s out doing work for her movie, now do we?”

Charlotte’s tone softened, “I…I suppose you’re right.”

Lottie grinned, “I’ll be remembering that one, Mother. Now…” She gently lifted various strands of Mary’s curls. “I think we can pin these, and maybe proper use of a headband and different make up would help disguise you. You’ve too much hair for a wig…”

“I don’t have a flapper headband,” Mary replied, resenting her use of the word, “And my hats are too…you know…for the dance club.”

“No matter,” Lottie excitedly retrieved her purse, “I’ve brought loads.”

Mary allowed herself to be poked and prodded by her mother and sister for the next hour or so as he thick, heavy curls miraculously disappeared beneath a beautiful beaded headband and a set of decorative pins. Lottie adorned her with a fancy Edwardian necklace and earrings, adding a bracelet for good measure. All things Mary Pickford would never wear.

“Needs more rouge here…” Lottie said, finishing adding make up to her sister’s face, “There. Now you don’t look like Little Mary anymore.” She stepped aside, allowing Mary to view herself in the mirror.

With the short sequined dress, bright shoes and entirely new face and hair, she didn’t even look like herself.

“I suppose…” Mary nodded in agreement, “I look like Juliet.”

She smiled. It was a perfect disguise. Lottie was clearly a magician.

“We ought to get going, now,” Lottie quickly added lipstick, checking her own in the reflection, “Buster will be here soon.”

“Buster?” Charlotte raised an eyebrow, “Is that what you’re calling him, then?”

“Oh Mother,” Lottie rolled her eyes, “It’s his godforsaken  _name_.”

—

“Where are you going?”

Natalie’s voice pierced the air, almost making him jump. Except he was used to this. She was always asking him things like this, even when she knew he was off to work. As if she wanted to catch him doing something wrong and evoke punishment. 

This marriage was punishment enough.

“I’m off to go dancing,” Buster replied, finishing tying his tie, “At the Palais.”

She didn’t need to know where he was going. A husband did not owe this to his wife. Still, Buster knew she would react grotesquely, which was why he said it.

“Dancing.” Natalie repeated.

“Yes.” Buster checked to make sure his hair was in place and was happy to see it was.

“With other women, I presume?”

“Well,” Buster checked his cuff-links, “I’m sure dancing with other men would be entirely possible, but seeing as men lead, it would prove to be rather difficult for whoever must play the follower. And I do not like to be a difficult person.”

Natalie scoffed, “You make a joke out of absolutely everything.”

“You make everything too serious.”

Mrs. Keaton watched him put on his suit jacket, something he wore quite rarely. She preferred he dress for dinner in it, but he wouldn’t. Often he wasn’t even home for dinner and preferred to work later at the studio. Natalie would never admit how much this hurt her.

“You’ve never shown at interest in dancing.”

“I have,” Buster replied, turning to her, “But you have insisted against it. After our honeymoon I wanted to take you.”

Natalie crossed her arms, “I don’t remember that.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” he replied, heading towards the door, “That was a lifetime ago.”

The heavy front door of the villa closed with a clean bang behind him. Natalie looked after it. Yes, she thought quietly. It certainly was.

—

Lottie stepped out of the car first, taking Mary’s hand to help her out. How they convinced Charlotte to stay behind was still a mystery, but both of them agreed it was better she not set foot in the Palais. The age of chaperons around young women and young men was fading, and she didn’t need to see the “degenerate” dancing and socializing that took place at a dance club.

Buster was right where he said he would be. Standing in the corner under the sign, Lottie flocked to him instantly, dragging her already reluctant sister behind her. “Buster! Over here, darling!”

He looked up from his cigarette and his mouth fell open. What a sight they were! Lottie, with her beautiful dark hair set with her deep eyes, a lavender dress paired with pale silver diamonds adorning her crown. And Mary…he wouldn’t have recognized her. A rosy pink gown, with beautiful adornments, and enough jewelry to befit Queen Victoria herself. Her golden curls were nowhere to be seen, but once they were close enough Buster was relieved to see she’d pinned them up.

Relieved only because the film likely wouldn’t be as well received if Mary Pickford wasn’t Mary Pickford.

“You clean up rather well, Mr. Keaton,” Mary said earnestly, “What a lovely suit.”

“Thank you,” Buster replied, “And you certainly look…different.”

“A good different, I hope?”

Buster nodded, “Absolutely.” He offered an arm to each girl. “I’ll pay for our entry.”

“A gentleman you are, Buster,” Lottie said with a grin, “Don’t look so forlorn, Mary. The fun is only beginning!”

Mary knew her idea of fun and Lottie’s were polar opposites, but she straightened herself, and against everything she believed and felt, entered the Palais on the arm of Buster Keaton.

Lottie was right, the hall was spectacular. Forgoing the Art Deco design that was on every Hollywood building, the Palais, though French-named, was modeled after the most beautiful Chinese designs. Vibrant reds, gold and green marked the walls, with a well worn floor that was used to dancing. In the middle of the room a magnificent chandelier hung from the painted tin ceiling, a remnant of a Victorian age where the courting was much more to Mary’s mother’s liking. A hazy cigarette smoke wafted through the air, not blocking the stage where a band was already playing a loud, infectious tune.

“I’ll be damned,” Buster said after he paid, and Mary swore she saw a grin sneak upon his normally solemn face, “That’s Dixie, ain’t it?”

“You bet your bottom dollar!” Lottie was in her element, thrilled with the environment and her company, “Come on then, you two. Let’s get on the floor before the night is over!”

Mary nearly tripped on her feet as Lottie tugged on Buster’s arm and pulled them towards the dance floor. She let go and back against the nearby wall, watching Lottie and Buster join the group of people. Crossing her arms, she felt her heart begin to pound in her chest. She definitely did not belong here.

“You lookin’ for a place to fall, mockingbird?”

A woman’s voice cut through the music and sharply into Mary’s ear. She turned, seeing it was a wide-eyed lady with short curly hair, a bit taller than herself. Her dress was a deep emerald with much less adornments than Mary’s, which in turn made her feel even more insecure. 

“I’ll have my guts for garters,” she covered her mouth, and Mary instinctively panicked, but the woman gently grasped her wrist, “Nevermind. I doubt you want to be found out, come have a seat over here at my table.”

Her table? Mary felt ill. She somehow let the woman lead her to a small, circular table by the wall, out of the way of the other patrons, most of whom were smoking, chatting, waiting for a dance or on the floor already. Pulling out a chair for Mary, she sat across from her and a smile crept upon her lips.

“I’m sure you get this a lot, but I’m a real big fan,” the woman said as Mary adjusted her white gloves uneasily, “And it sure ain’t my business as to what you’re doing at a joint like this. But no matter.” She offered her hand. “I’m Clara Bow.”

Mary’s heart sank. Clara Bow herself, the one actress in town that threatened Mary’s status as fan favourite. Of course she’d be at one of these places where all the patrons of her films would be. Bow was everything Mary wasn’t- she radiated sex appeal, smoked and drank, was a flapper in the pictures- and people adored her. Charlotte had written her off, but Mary knew with Clara Bow rising, she was not as safe as she once was.

“Don’t say it,” Clara replied after she shook Mary’s nervous, gloved hand, “I take it, by the way you’ve hidden your hair, you don’t want your secret spilled.”

“Not quite,” Mary responded, “I don’t even think I should be here.”

“Everyone’s allowed a night of bliss, aren’t they?” Clara said, “Is the mister here too, then?”

Mary shook her head, “Overseas.”

“Ah,” Clara reached into her purse and retrieved a case of cigarettes, “Men don’t like to be tied down. Then again, the age of woman is coming.” She offered Mary one and she politely declined. “And you know something? Because of you, who came off the stage and onto the screen, becoming the most loved woman on earth, I’ve got a chance.”

Mary didn’t feel like being patronized by anybody, let alone Clara Bow, “Thank you, but I must be going.”

“Wait,” Clara stood up, “I’m sorry. I’ve offended you. I get it. I’m not like most of you Hollywood types, everyone thinks I’m rude and uncivilized and whatnot. But I gotta know…why are you at the Palais? Someone like you ought to be having a party of their own.”

Mary sighed, “Clara, it was very nice to meet you-”

“Who’ve you come to dance with?” Clara asked, “Right, not my business…I mean…there’s only a few fellas here that are worth the tumble on the floor. I can direct you to the ones that aren’t worth your dime, if you like.”

“She already has a partner.”

Clara’s eyes grew bright and surprised at the sight of Buster, who appeared by Mary’s side. Lottie was nowhere to be seen.

“Talmadge’s old ball and chain,” Clara smirked, “You. You’re one of the greatest comedians on earth, you know that, Keaton? I didn’t take you for a dance hall cat.”

“Always nice to see you too, Clara,” Buster replied dryly, “Mary, don’t you think we should get you practicing?”

“Practicing?” Clara cocked her head, “You mean to tell me you’re here to learn to dance?”

Mary’s face turned a deep crimson. Buster noticed this and so did Clara, who covered her mouth as she slowed realized the situation.

“Forgive me. I’m terrible, I know,” she inhaled and exhaled her smoke, “Listen. After this one ends in a couple seconds, they’ll play a real killer. That’s the one to have your first jig to. Keaton, you know the hop?”

“Sure do,” Buster replied, “I can show her.”

“Right,” Clara stood up, “I’ll go grab Billy. We’ll dance side by side so Mary can watch me. Meet us under the blue dragoon over there.”

As Clara disappeared into the crowd, Mary looked up at Buster suspiciously, “Where’s Lottie?”

Buster shrugged, “Not sure. I did a round with her, well, half of one. She’s a good dancer. But she saw someone she knew and I was chopped liver. So, I came to find you.”

Mary sighed, “Typical. Well, maybe Clara’s right. Maybe she and her friend Billy can help…”

“It’s a good idea, really,” Buster assured her, “Besides, you like Dixieland, don’t you?”

Mary pursed her lips anxiously, “I do, yes. Douglas plays them off and on at home. But I can’t say I’ve ever danced to them…”

Buster offered his arm, “Don’t worry. Clara knows how to help beginners. She taught me to dance, after all.”

Mary blinked at him, “Clara Bow taught Buster Keaton how to dance.”

“Alright, not entirely true, it was her and Billy,” Buster admitted as they circled the crowd towards the blue dragon design on the far side of the room, “But I’m sure happy they did. Helps with the funny little bits in my films that I’ve got more grace.” And coaxing women into bed. It helped there too.

Mary wouldn’t consider Buster Keaton graceful, but then she wouldn’t ever match herself with a Dixieland dance club. She felt like she was dressed for a role she didn’t agree to, and her insecurity, one that rarely reared its head, was so obvious to everyone around her. Mary felt more naked than she had been the day she was born.

Moments later, they met Clara and Billy. Clara showed her how to stand with Buster. It was easier than expected, for Buster was a small man and nowhere near as tall as Douglas. They explained the count, with various steps. Quickly, the practiced the steps in order, and Mary found it wasn’t as hard as she expected.

“I’ll whisper the steps in your ear, Mary,” Buster said, and she was thankful, “And as soon as you’re ready, we’ll just follow the music.”

The song came and went, and the band pushed the crowd in the sweetest jazz the town had ever known. Over and over, Mary found herself immersed in it all. The “degenerate” music, the “over-sexual” style of the dance, it was wonderful. Mary let Buster swing her around, finding herself smiling, and perhaps one or two appeared on his face. Before they knew it, both Buster and Mary were dancing as if they’d known how their entire lives.

“You’re a real natural!” Clara complimented her as they sat down for a break, the men going to retrieve them refreshments, “God, one day I’ll tell the world I went dancing with Mary bloomin’ Pickford.”

Mary laughed, “And no one will believe you!” She was having fun, admittedly.

“One fruit cup for Miss Juliet,” Buster announced, setting a drink before her, “And the same for ‘ol Romeo.”

“Tell me, Stone Face,” Billy said, lighting a cigarette, “How’s a dope like you end up with the queen of the movies?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together,” Buster insisted, “We’re working on a picture. Mary’s gotta learn to dance. That’s all.”

“Buster’s married to Natalie Talmadge,” Clara reminded Billy, “You know, Constance’s sister.”

“Been forever since I saw Connie,” Billy said, “Especially since Peg keeps her under lock and key. All three of them.”

“Who’s Peg?” Mary asked. She wasn’t one to pry, but since they were all having such a good time and in lively conversation, she felt fine asking.

“My mother-in-law,” Buster said in a bored tone, “Margaret Talmadge. Calls herself Peg, so does everyone else.”

“But Buster calls her the devil,” Clara smirked, her hand holding a cigarette in such a way she looked like an artist’s rendering, “All them Talmadges. Stuck up, snot-nosed folks, eh Keaton?”

Clara talked like a boy on the schoolyard, Mary thought. How different the two of them were. Clara, with her wild hair and smoking, and Mary, the demure little lady who felt like an impostor in her flapper outfit. She knew she wasn’t meant to be in a place like this, despite the fun she’d had, and perhaps Lottie would-

Wait. Where was Lottie?

“Where’s my sister?” Mary stood up suddenly, “I promised Mama I would keep an eye on her.”

“Oh, Lottie, right,” Buster also stood up, “I’ll go collect her from the dance floor.”

Mary watched as Buster vanished into the crowd, feeling uneasy. Something wasn’t right and she knew it. Lottie was in trouble, again.

Sure enough, just as quickly as he was gone, Buster returned, “She’s not out there, I didn’t see her.”

“Who you looking for, again?” Billy asked, taking a puff of his cigar. The scent drifted to Mary, who felt herself grow sick at the smell. It was an unwelcome, unnatural scent. Suddenly, the once beautiful dance hall now looked dark and scary. As if you’d lifted the mask of someone with ill intent.

She had to get out of there.

“Lavender dress, dark hair, white crown,” Buster explained, “Clara, you saw her come in with us.”

“Oh, that’s Lo,” Clara sat up, “She uh, she’s outside.”

“Outside?” Mary barked, “Where outside?”

“Easy, easy. You’ll find her in the alley with Jim.”

Jim? Mary didn’t know a Jim and her sister certainly didn’t mention one. Her heart racing, she made a rush for the door. Buster tumbled after her through the crowd, finally in his usual proper running form once they reached the entrance.

“Lottie!” Mary called out, like a mother searching for a naughty child, “Lottie, I swear I’ll-”

There, as Clara said, in the alley, was Lottie. Her skirt was hiked up and a man who most certainly wasn’t Allan had his face buried in her neck. Lottie’s eye flew open when she heard her sister’s gasp.

“Charlotte Smith Pickford,” Mary said, “I presume that is NOT your husband.”

The man lifted his head and turned to look, allowing Lottie’s skirt to drop down to its proper state, his one hand against the wall and the other now resting on his hip, “Who’re you, then?”

Lottie took his chin with her hand, “No one, Jimmy, let’s get out of here-”

“Are you honestly going to just let a man have you like this? Like a cheap whore?” Mary said. She was furious with Lottie.

Jim, who was now fixing his pants and adjusting his jacket, stepped away from Lottie, “Alright then, you two sort this out.”

“Wait, Jimmy, please…” Lottie pleaded, but he headed back to the front doors of the Palais.

She glared at Mary, “Must you spoil EVERYTHING?”

Mary gaped at her, “Do you realize that man likely necks with every other woman in that place? You cannot honestly believe you’re the only one he-”

“I KNOW I’m not the only one,” Lottie scoffed, “You’re such…such a killjoy. Always was.” She stumbled forward. Buster managed to jump in time to catch her.

“…she smells like alcohol,” Mary said slowly, “How on earth did she-”

“There are ways, I’m sure you know that,” Buster said, holding Lottie up, “I…suppose we ought to get her home, shouldn’t we?”

—

Buster helped Lottie to the chesterfield in her living room. Mary crossed her arms, her look ever so disapproving, “You’re lucky I don’t tell Mother.”

“Oh go on, tell her,” Lottie waved her hand, “She won’t be surprised.”

This much was true. “Does that man know you’re married?”

“Piss off,” Lottie said, surprising her sister with her language, “You’re one to talk.”

Buster felt like he was in the middle of a brewing storm, taking a step back as Mary took a step forward.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Mary said.

“You and Doug, you were running around while he was still married,” Lottie said, her speech slurring heavily now, “And Owen. You cried wolf with that one.”

Mary’s face turned red with anger, “Cried wolf?! Lottie, he used to hit me!”

Lottie rolled her eyes, “You always were the better actor, weren’t you?”

“Oh don’t even try with that.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Lottie wiped her lipstick off with her glove, “You. Mary Pickford. The best of the three Pickfords.”

“Lottie, I do not have time for your jealousy.”

“Jealousy?!” Lottie stood up, with difficulty at first, but eventually, “You should be so bold. I heard it from Jack, you know. Back when Olive was still alive.”

Olive Thomas was their brother Jack’s first wife, and the woman he loved more than anything in the world. Her death, an accidental poisoning, still weighed heavy on his conscience, and was one of the reasons they rarely saw him. Well, Mary at least. He and Lottie visited and wrote letters. The two younger Pickfords were close.

“Heard what?”

“You told people you thought I wasn’t pretty enough for the pictures,” Lottie said bitterly, her eyes glassy with tears, “Your own sister. Don’t you remember the train trips, all over the country, earning money to bring home to Mother? Sleeping standing up, and being hungry? We were there too, Jack and I.”

“Lottie, of course I remember, I-”

“All I ever wanted was to be your equal!” Lottie spat, “And instead I’m your shame. You look down at me. Treating me as filth, making me hide my friends from you. We came from the same womb and yet, you act as though yours were plated with gold. You disapprove of everything I do, and Mother insisted I name my own CHILD after you.” Lottie grasped the teapot, heavy and glass, a gift from Charlotte. “I have no need for you, and your little schemes with Mother.”

Mary backed away, “Lottie…”

“Get OUT!” Lottie screamed, heaving the large teapot in her shaky, drunken arms.

Buster and Mary ran to the door, slamming it shut just as Lottie threw the huge teapot against it. The sound of it shattering rang in Mary’s ears, just as loud as the train whistle had years ago when they were children. Louder than any applause at the stage productions they’d been in. Heavier than the sound of the city clock tower back in Toronto.

She was certain it had been heard around the entire world.


End file.
